


Sherlock v. Toby: Winner Take Molls

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, Fluff, Sherlock competing with a cat for Molly's affection, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's lap was the battlefield, Toby the cat was the enemy, and Sherlock Holmes was determined to be the victor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Round One In the Great Lap Ownership Wars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsteraceaeBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/gifts).



> Thanks to KraZiiePyrozHavemoreFun over at ff.net for the prompt idea and to AsteraceaeBlue for betaing! Most of the time I admit to being pretty well paralyzed if someone sends me a prompt, with the mind going blank and me feeling like an idiot, but for once...well, I'll let you lovely readers be the judge if I did the prompt justice! And by the way? It was going to be a quick drabble but grew into...this. The plot bunnies burrow where they like!

It started the night before Sherlock left to take down Moriarty's web of evil, the night after his jump from the roof of St. Bart's, when he'd stayed with Molly. His brother had offered a safe house, but Sherlock had insisted that there was no safer place for him than Molly's flat. She of course had offered no objections; after all, not only were her feelings for him abundantly clear, but he hoped she understood now exactly how much she meant to him as well.

She counted, he trusted her. And so she allowed him the use of her flat for that one night, after his 'body' had been identified by Mycroft, and his parents (Mummy really was an amazing actress) had sobbed over him and released him to the 'mortician' and he'd endured a brief ride in the back of a hearse, slipping out once inside the garage of the funeral home to make his way to Molly's flat.

He'd used the spare key she'd tucked into his jacket pocket, although tempted to test out his lock-picking skills. But no, one of her neighbors might come by at an inopportune moment, and although he trusted in his abilities, he was forced to admit that, on this particular day, he wasn't at his best. Too emotionally wrought ( _don't think about John's face, John's anguished words_ ), physically compromised to a certain extent ( _wrenched shoulder, aching left wrist, twisted ankle, headache verging on migraine_ ) to take the chance.

As soon as he closed the door behind him he found himself confronted with a very suspicious looking Toby ( _male, three years old, fixed, grey and black striped fur, extra digit on front right paw, green-blue eyes with flecks of amber, looking familiar for some reason but unable to place at the moment_ ), Molly's cat.

The two stared at one another; had anyone been there to see them (Molly was finishing up her shift at Bart's and would undoubtedly have to endure an extra half-hour of colleagues offering her their condolences on her 'loss'), they would have found the sight particularly amusing, as the human man and the male cat wore identically comic expressions of mutual dislike; if Sherlock's ears could fold back against his head the way Toby's currently were, they would have. If Toby had been capable of wrinkling his nose the way Sherlock's currently was, he would have.

Other than than that, the narrowed eyes, the curled lips and the reared-back heads made the two look a bit like twins (different species, but twins nonetheless).

The moment ended when Toby hissed, turned his back and fled into one of the two bedrooms – most likely Molly's, Sherlock deduced, although to his chagrin he would proven wrong an hour later, after he'd made himself tea (contrary to popular belief, he did know his way around a kitchen), gulped down a handful of chocolate biscuits (Molly had told him to help himself to anything he found in the flat), and calmed his nerves (not that he would admit to needing calming) by deducing Molly's life by examining the public areas of her flat.

Then necessity called, he used the facilities, and gave into the desire to explore the remaining two rooms, both doors being open. One would be Molly's bedroom, of course, and the other would be a combination guest bedroom and office.

He was correct on both assumptions; however, he was vaguely displeased to discover Toby lounging across the cheery yellow comforter on the daybed in the spare bedroom, instead of sprawled possessively across Molly's bed as Sherlock had assumed he would be. That wouldn't do, it wouldn't do at all; if he was to spend the night here, that daybed was his, and Toby was going to have to give up ownership.

Now.

Sherlock continued into the room, locking eyes with his foe as he finally removed his coat and scarf and hung them on the hooks on the back of the door. He sat on the rolling chair pulled up to Molly's desk (and on top of a pile of papers she'd left haphazardly piled there, not even noticing since he was so intent on outstaring the cat) and removed his shoes. Then he stood back up (said papers falling all over the place and once again unnoticed by the consulting detective) and stalked over to the bed, still glowering at the cat. “Get up,” he said in his coldest, most intimidating voice. “I need to stretch out and you, cat, are in the way.”

Toby continued to stare up at him, seeming not one whit discommoded by Sherlock's presence looming over him. In fact, he had the temerity to blink ( _Hah! I won,_ Sherlock thought triumphantly, immediately followed by disgust at the fact that he was competing with a _cat_ ) and then yawn before proceeding to lick his paws (the one with the extra toe first) before moving on to his private parts. There was a certain air of disdain if not outright dismissiveness to his actions, and Sherlock was sorely tempted to pick him up bodily and toss him out the door.

Molly, however, would undoubtedly not approve if he manhandled her beloved pet, so instead, Sherlock tried crowding the animal off the bed. 

Toby of course refused to budge, and in the end Sherlock retreated to Molly's colorfully patterned sofa (flowers of course, she loved flowers), laid down and vanished into his Mind Palace for a good, long sulk...uh, think. A good, long _think_.

He was still deep within his own mind when Molly finally dragged her way home (a half hour later than normal, as he'd predicted). He only came out of it, blinking and looking around, when he heard her clattering around in the kitchen. Why was it that some people only became noisier the quieter they tried to be? “I'm not sleeping, but yes, a cup of tea would be appreciated,” he called out, anticipating her question. Then he folded his hands back beneath his chin and returned to a (less intense) review of the plans he and Mycroft had made to take down Moriarty's criminal empire.

He heard Molly approaching a few minutes later and angled his head up so that she could sit on the sofa and he could leave his head where it was – well, in her lap, which seemed like the best place for it at the moment. He trusted her to understand the invitation and, being Molly (so much more observant than he'd given her credit), she hesitated only a moment before joining him there.

He relaxed against her thigh, murmuring his thanks for the tea and the life-saving and for the head massage she was about to give him – oh, wasn't it obvious that was what he needed? Headache, don't you know...

Then Molly's gentle fingers were stroking through his hair, easing the pain he'd been doing his best to ignore, and Sherlock Holmes felt all the tension in his body that had built up over the past twenty-four hours finally draining away.

Until, of course, a certain cat made his displeasure at being deprived of his favorite seat known.

“Toby! Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry!”

Sherlock had levered himself upright as soon as Molly's cat had jumped up onto her lap – more accurately, onto his face, which had been occupying her lap. Little bastard had made sure to use his claws as well, as witness the blood currently dripping down Sherlock's face. He'd endured less damage from his leap from the roof of St. Bart's earlier in the day!

While Sherlock glared and spat curse words at the clearly unrepentant – and maliciously triumphant – cat, Molly hurried into the kitchen and retrieved her first aid kit. She fussed over Sherlock, much to Toby's disgruntlement, while Sherlock shot him malicious grins whenever Molly wasn't looking. She cooed and fussed over Sherlock and scolded Toby, which made Sherlock grin even wider and sent Toby into the spare bedroom in a sulk. Then, when Molly tentatively offered to exile Toby from his usual perch, Sherlock pretended to be the bigger man and told her not to bother, he'd already discommoded her beloved pet enough for one day. Then, with innocent eyes and his most rumbly voice (the one he knew did things to her limbic system even if he still refused to admit that her reaction to his voice did the same for his own body), he asked if he might just lie down on her bed, instead?

“It's larger, there's more room, and if I feel the need to pace, I think it would be best if I confined myself there rather than disturbing your evening routine, wouldn't you agree?”

And of course she had; she was Molly Hooper and had already proven she would do anything for him.

But as he closed her bedroom door behind him and set about pacing, he found his mind lingering not on his current predicament or Moriarty's left-behind empire, but on how much he relied on the fact that Molly would do anything for him.

And how much he wanted to do...things...for her. 

For her, and to her.

No. Wrong. He banished the images that tried to spring to mind, shoved them away in the cupboard (small room...mid-sized room...hell, ballroom-sized space) he reserved for All Things Molly Hooper. He needed to focus on taking down Moriarty's empire and had no time for distractions, even Molly-shaped distractions.

Of course, being in her bedroom certainly didn't help, since the sight of her clothing (surely she must have remembered that she'd left her nightgown – a pale yellow satin that would complement her skin and hair beautifully – lying across the foot of the bed and that the strap of a black bra was hanging from her dresser drawer) and the scent of her perfume all sought to remind him of her presence.

No. Wrong again. He laid himself across her bed (after carefully removing her nightgown, his fingers lingering only because the fabric was an interesting, seldom-felt texture and not because he was busy trying not to imagine Molly wearing it), closed his eyes, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and forced his Mind Palace to order itself.

It took three tries, but eventually he succeeded.


	2. After the Return: Rounds Two and Three

The next round in “Toby v. Sherlock” came shortly after his return from the dead two years later. Molly had assisted him with cases on that one glorious day (which he'd told her and tried to convince himself was only to say “thank you” to her and not a date...especially not a date with a woman who was currently engaged to another man, how had it taken him so long to notice the ring...well, sometimes the mind saw what it wanted to see and ignored what it wanted to ignore) and he'd seen her in the morgue on occasion, but one night, when her fiancé was out of town on business of some boring sort or other (Sherlock could never be bothered to remember what the man did for a living), he had found himself walking up to the door of Molly's building and pressing the buzzer before he'd even realized where he was.

“Hello? Who is it?”

Molly sounded alert but not frightened, in spite of the fact that it was, essentially, the middle of the night. “Sherlock,” he replied tersely, and she'd buzzed him in without demanding to know why he was there or if something was wrong.

When he reached her second-floor flat, the door was partially open, an invitation he immediately accepted. Once inside he closed and locked the door behind him, removing his coat and scarf (they were damp, why were they damp, it must have been raining) and shaking the wet from his hair (yes, it had definitely been raining, hmm, he hadn't noticed, too lost in his thoughts) before looking around for Molly.

Ah, in the kitchen, putting the kettle on and yawning a bit. She wore a fluffy pink dressing-gown and he wondered distractedly if she was wearing the yellow satin nightgown beneath it before forcing such thoughts away from his mind. She was engaged to Tom, the boring, not-a-criminal-no-matter-how-much-Sherlock-wished-he-was-so-he-could-make-him-go-away Tom, and Sherlock had no right to wonder what she wore beneath the fluffy pink monstrosity of a dressing-gown.

A noisy meow from the region of his ankles caught his attention; he glanced down with a frown to see Toby winding his way around Sherlock's ankles. Cats weren't supposed to like the wet, so why on Earth...as the cat moved away, sauntering into the kitchen with his tail raised, high, Sherlock bit back a curse at the sight of the grey and black fur now covering the bottoms of his trousers. This round to Toby, was his disgruntled thought, but the war was far from over.

“Tea, right?” Molly called out, interrupting his (rather murderous) thoughts about her cat. “Take a seat, Sherlock, make yourself comfortable. I'll be right there and you can tell me what this is all about. Or not,” she rambled on as he made his way to the sofa, levering his feet up so that they dangled over the arm. He kicked his shoes off and grumbled anew at the sight of the fur adorning his damp trouser bottoms, but pasted a welcoming smile on his face as Molly entered the small parlor, depositing the tray on the low table and starting for the matching armchair.

Sherlock raised his head and gave her a pointed look; she didn't quite smile, but her dimples showed as she changed directions and seated herself on the sofa. Before he could lower his head onto her lap – and perhaps talk her into another one of her marvelously soothing head-massages – there was the sound of a thump and the feel of fur across his face and Toby took possession of Molly's lap, purring loudly. Sherlock gave him an outraged look, Toby continued to thrash his tail across Sherlock's face and Molly had the temerity to giggle at the sight. “Oh, you two,” she said when she had regained control of her voice. Her fingers were stroking Toby's head instead of Sherlock's, who was now sitting up as he continued to glower at her pet. “Honestly, he does this with Tom, too!”

As soon as the words left her mouth it was clear Molly regretted them; Toby hissed and jumped off her lap and Sherlock retreated to the far end of the sofa, trying his best to ignore her stricken face as he reached for his cup and gulped down his tea. Mumbling his thanks for the short-term use of her sofa, reassuring her that he'd only intended to stay for a few minutes as he needed to get out of the rain and clear his head (he was really a first-rate liar when he had to be), Sherlock gathered up his belongings and rushed out the door, slamming it shut behind him and not caring if he woke the neighbors or gave something away to Molly he still wasn't ready to admit to himself.

It was only after he’d flagged down a passing taxi that he realized, much to his disgruntlement, that he’d surrendered this round to Toby, who’d doubtlessly been coaxed to return to Molly’s lap as soon as the door had shut behind him.

oOo

Round three of The Struggle for Ownership of Molly’s Lap happened a few days after John and Mary’s wedding, while they were off on their sex vacation, as Sherlock insisted on calling it. Tom was once again out of town (Sherlock always made sure to coincide his visits to Molly’s flat with her fiance’s absence, although neither of them commented on that circumstance) and Sherlock was, quite frankly, bored and restless. He’d ‘borrowed’ Molly’s keys once while she was working, nipped round the corner to a locksmith and had copies made for himself. It made it so much easier to use her flat as a bolt-hole once he did that; he’d even tried going there once or twice when she wasn’t home, but had decided that it was far too quiet then and returned to his usual habits.

It had nothing to do with the way Toby glared at him the entire time, he told himself.

At any rate, a few days after John and Mary buggered off together (but not before they’d confirmed his deductions regarding the new Mrs. Watson’s ‘interesting condition’), he was back, bored and restless. He let himself in while Molly was, judging by the noise coming from the direction of her bathroom, singing in the shower. Her voice wasn’t bad, he decided, but reserved judgement until able to hear it when it wasn’t a) muffled and distant, and b) accompanied by the sounds of water hitting her body.

He paused in the act of settling himself on her sofa; for some reason, images of her naked body under the warm spray had instantly entered his mind. He could picture her lathering her hair while continuing to sing some pop song he didn’t recognize, could picture her running her hands over her body afterwards, soaping her breasts, teasing the nipples into…

“Bloody hell!” he swore, jumping back to his feet and scowling down at himself. He had an erection now; what was he, some hormone-addled teenager again? He could either ignore it and hope it would go away (unlikely since he was fully hard and nearly throbbing as visions of a naked, soaking wet Molly touching herself continued to plague his mind’s eye), or do something to take care of it. The latter option was, of course, absurd; he had no idea how long Molly would remain in the bathroom (although her showers generally lasted at least ten minutes, with an extra five minutes if she was conditioning her hair as well as washing it) and had some vague idea that it was bad manners to wank off in a friend’s flat while said friend might possibly walk in on one.

Besides, there was the blasted cat. Toby had jumped up on the sofa while Sherlock waffled in indecision, and was currently sprawled out in an insolent manner, tail twitching as he eyed the intruder. The pest was practically daring Sherlock to try to sit down, to attempt once again to take over the coveted lap that would soon be occupying the end of the sofa. And Molly might not be a consulting detective or an observational genius, but she was certainly observant enough to notice when a man had an erection.

Too bad she was still engaged to what’s-his-name, Sherlock thought, then shook his head and scowled at himself. No, not too bad. She loved him, she was happy; he’d seen them dancing at the wedding reception, Molly smiling and laughing even after the unfortunate Meat Dagger incident (although he mentally replayed the bit where she’d stabbed the idiot in the hand with her plastic fork over and over again when he needed a chuckle).

With another scowl, Sherlock headed for the door. His erection had flagged just thinking about Molly with That Idiot, and he didn’t want to examine the reasons too closely.

Without a single shot being fired, Toby was the definite winner of that particular skirmish.


	3. Round Four - Never Piss Off A Cat Owner

He didn’t return to her flat until after his shooting. Molly had been so furious with him for the drug use (it had truly been for the case, Magnussen was far too wily to be taken in by Sherlock faking it) and the Janine Tabloid Revenge Scheme (Molly had very coolly told him it served him right to be back in the press’s sights for pulling such a heartless stunt on the other woman), that he hadn’t dared. But once he was healed enough to leave the hospital legally, hers was the first place he went.

Meat Dagger was long gone by then, the engagement broken by Molly as she finally realized that Tom was nothing but a boring idiot with boring friends and equally boring parents (even his dog was boring; he’d actually named the beagle ‘Spot’ which really should have been a warning sign for Molly from the get-go) and had nothing to offer her but a boring life of pubs, telly, walking the dog in the park…dull, dull, so incredibly _dull_. Besides, Sherlock thought smugly as he approached the front door to Molly’s building, Toby would never put up with another pet. Which was undoubtedly why Tom and ‘Spot’ had never moved in even after Molly had accepted the marriage proposal.

The Magnussen case was even more complicated now with Mary’s secret on the line (and John still struggling to deal with her unknown past even now, three months later), and Sherlock needed someplace far away from Baker Street and his temporary flatmate’s incessant pacing to spend some quality time in his Mind Palace. Molly would have the telly on low or be listening to classical music if she was on her laptop, and Sherlock could rest his head in her lap and vanish into his own mind for as long as necessary.

As soon as he entered the flat, he realized two things: One, he should have let Molly know he was coming, and Two, Toby was ready for war. The cat was sprawled across Molly’s lap like he owned it (Sherlock refused to acknowledge said ownership, even if he did generally subscribe to the ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law’ theory), his green-blue eyes narrowed to slits as if daring Sherlock to try something.

Molly’s expression wasn’t much friendlier. She looked him up and down, her fingers continuing to stroke the fur on Toby’s head as she said, “I want those keys, Sherlock. Now.” She held up her free hand and waited.

He walked over to her, fighting the urge to duck his head and shuffle his feet like an errant school-boy caught out by the Headmistress as he plucked the requested items from his jacket pocket and dropped them into her hand without a single murmur of protest. Then he waited, because clearly she had more to say to him; the set of her shoulders and the compression of her lips told him as much.

“Sherlock, I'm glad you've fully recovered from being shot, you know that, right?” He nodded; how could he not know that, after she'd spent so much time by his side when he was lying in his hospital bed, barely conscious but always aware of her presence?

“Good,” she went on, and he braced himself, because this was the part he knew he wasn't going to like but undoubtedly deserved. “I hope you believe me when I say this, because I’m only going to say it once.” He met her gaze squarely and inclined his head to indicate that he was listening. “You can use my flat only if you’re clean, and only if you promise never to pull a stunt like that again. I don’t care how important the case is, I want your word that you’ll never ever do drugs or fake a relationship with someone again. Is that clear?”

He nodded, cleared his throat, and answered her. “Crystal. And I do give my word, Molly.”

Without meaning it, his gaze darted toward her lap and the smug feline currently occupying that position. Molly’s eyes were still lacking their usual warmth, but it was clear she understood exactly what he was asking. But then, that was just how Molly was; she always knew. 

For a few seconds he thought she was going to deny him, to send him on his way and leave Toby where he was; then she sighed and lifted Toby from her lap, depositing the disgruntled cat gently onto the floor before patting the sofa next to her in the invitation Sherlock had been craving. “Come on, I can tell you need a good head rub and some thinking time. Is there any point to me asking why John Watson is staying at your flat right now?”

He shook his head, toed off his shoes and dropped his coat on the floor, smirking a bit when it narrowly missed Toby’s nose – but careful not to let Molly see him do so. One sign that he was more interested in his victory over the cat than he was in accepting her offer as the gracious concession it was and he would find himself on the other side of the flat’s door.

Toby, of course, had no such compunctions; the little beast gave his usual hiss of disapproval and vanished into the kitchen as Molly turned on the telly, volume down low, and waited for Sherlock to maneuver himself into position. He wished he could talk to Molly about John and Mary’s situation, he really did, but it wasn’t his secret to tell, even to someone as trustworthy as Molly Hooper. “They’re having some marital issues, but I’m confident they’ll work things out,” he finally said, offering her what little he could tell and repressing a sigh of contentment as Molly’s fingers began to work their usual magic on his scalp.

This round definitely belonged to Sherlock Holmes, and not just because Molly herself had exiled her spoiled pet. No, it was as much because it signaled the end of the tension that had sprung up between the two humans after that humiliating slapping session (he deserved every blow, no question of that) at St. Bart’s. 

He just wished he could figure out the right way to broach the question of Molly’s romantic availability now that she and Meat Dagger had been over for nearly four months. Yes, he was Sherlock Holmes and he didn’t do romance or sentiment, had long believed love to be a four-letter word in the foulest sense…but he was also reluctantly beginning to understand that he felt more for Molly than simple friendship. 

Once the Magnussen case was concluded, he would find a way. He couldn’t start something in the middle of so pressing a case, while John and Mary were on the outs and while Mary's secret was in danger of exposure to her enemies, but as soon as everything was taken care of, it would be his first priority.


	4. After the Four Minute Exile, A Truce of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing and leaving kudos and putting up with my silliness!

Moriarty was (possibly) back. Sherlock’s four minute exile was at an end, Magnussen was still dead (confirmed, body exhumed at Mycroft’s behest, no sense in taking chances since very few people in Sherlock's circle seemed to stay dead for very long), and Molly and Toby were settling into Baker Street, where Sherlock insisted they stay until the newest threat against them was taken care of. It was at this point that Sherlock realized that he would likely never find the so-called ‘perfect time’ to tell Molly his feelings.

He’d tried before Christmas, only to be foiled by Toby “accidentally” knocking over his and Molly’s wine glasses, spilling the dark liquid all over their clothes, the coffee table, the carpet, distracting Molly long enough for Sherlock’s mobile to ring and send him dashing away, the words still unspoken. He’d planned it out meticulously, when to say it, what mood to set…everything, in fact, but the words themselves. He’d hoped they would simply come to him spontaneously that evening, and suspected it was just as well that Toby had ruined things, or else he might have ruined it himself.

Molly had gone to visit her sister’s family in Bath for the Christmas holiday, but by then it was far too late; Sherlock had barely been able to leave her a good-bye message, lying to her as he had to John about the actual purpose behind his being chosen for MI-6’s undercover operation: a death sentence he’d willingly subjected himself to in order to save John and Mary – and not incidentally a large group of other people – from Magnussen’s particular brand of evil. 

Telling Molly then, when he was knowingly going to his death, would have been cruel. He didn’t need John Watson’s mental voice inside his mind chiding him to know that.

And now, of all the incredible, least likely twists, Sherlock had been spared from that exile and death sentence by the unlikely (nearly impossible, although there were at least four explanations for how he might have survived eating that bullet on the roof of St. Bart’s, and even more explanations if it wasn’t actually a returned-from-the-dead Moriarty who’d hijacked the British airwaves) return of his arch enemy. A man who’d overlooked Molly before…but surely wouldn’t now.

It was the very definition of the worst possible time to tell Molly how he felt, but if he put it off again, who knew when he’d have another chance? _Sod it,_ he thought. _Now or never._ Molly was curled up on his sofa, her cat on her lap. Toby was purring and for once his expression seemed benign, eyes narrowed in contentment rather than contempt as he watched Sherlock approach the sofa. He sat down next to Molly, who was gazing unseeingly into the middle distance; she started a bit when he laid his hand on her arm, automatically moving to lift Toby from her lap when Sherlock surprised them both by stopping her. “No, let him keep it, he’s comfortable. I just wanted to see if you were…all right.”

That sounded lame but Molly seemed to appreciate his words; a warm smile touched her lips and her eyes focused on his face. “Thanks for letting us stay here, Sherlock,” she murmured. “I know you’ll get this all sorted soon.”

He very nearly let out a disdainful snort at that assertion, but held it back; Molly's faith in him was nothing to hold in contempt or be sarcastic about, no matter how little faith he had in himself at the moment. Moriarty, or someone using his image, had held the airwaves of Great Britain hostage for a little less than five minutes, yet had caused a panic whose repercussions were still being felt, two weeks later.

Sherlock still hadn't told Molly that her temporary stay at Baker Street wasn't merely a precaution, that the computer-generated image of Moriarty chanting “Did you miss me?” over and over again in varying tones and frequencies thanks to a sophisticated voice modulator had also held a direct threat to her. It had taken Sherlock an hour to discover the hidden message and another hour to decode it – a half-hour sooner than Mycroft's team of government code-breakers – and he'd insisted that Molly move in with him as soon as he could make his way to St. Bart's to speak to her about it.

She'd protested at first, naturally enough, and why shouldn't she? Yes, it was unlikely Moriarty would overlook her a second time – if it really was him, which no one had been able to ascertain as of yet, much to Sherlock's disgruntlement – but she clearly found it difficult to believe that anyone would think her worth bothering with.

The sound of Molly hesitantly speaking his name brought Sherlock back to the present. He glanced down at her, wondering why she hadn’t simply let him drift off into his own mind since she was used to him doing so, then realized it was because he’d left his hand on her arm. Was gripping it rather tightly, in fact, as if afraid to let her go. Which he wasn’t, not in the least; he didn’t need reassurance that she was still there, still safe in his flat with her detested cat purring away like a defective tea-kettle on her lap… _Now or never,_ he reminded himself, then opened his mouth and let the words come out as they would.

“Molly, I think we should pursue a romantic relationship. I know this is a terrible time for me to say this, but it’s been on my mind for quite a while now and it has finally dawned on me that there is no right time, not with the way my life is. There will always be someone after me or criminals for me to catch, cases to take up my attention, but the simple fact of the matter is that you…make me happy. And I want to do the same for you. If I can. I don’t have much experience in that, admittedly, but I’m confident that you’ll let me know if I’m doing it wrong, slap me if I need it…”

He was silenced by the unexpected whisk of Toby’s tail across his mouth. The wretched beast was still occupying Molly’s lap, but had raised itself on all fours and was stretching, front legs low and rear legs high enough for his tail to reach Sherlock’s lips. Then he did something he’d never done before when Sherlock and Molly were seated in such close proximity: He looked up at the consulting detective, yawned widely…and jumped to the floor, sauntering away as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Nor did he, of course, being a pampered housecat, but the attitude was almost patronizing. As if he’d knowingly ceded the fight for the day to his mortal enemy…but why?

Oh. Of course. Sherlock took advantage of Toby’s absence and Molly’s stunned stillness – she’d been gaping at him the entire time he was speaking, as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second head and was talking to her in stilted French – to take his pathologist into his arms and press a tentative kiss to her lips.

A kiss which it only took her seconds to respond to, slipping her arms around him and opening her mouth beneath his when he nibbled on her lower lip and tentatively swiped his tongue across it.

Molly's eyes fluttered shut, and just before Sherlock's did the same, he spared a second to glance over to his chair, where Toby had comfortably situated himself. He could have sworn the damned cat was smirking at him, but then his eyes closed and he was too busy snogging Molly to spare even a tenth of his attention for her cat.

Besides, doing so would be to concede that Sherlock had won only because Toby let him and that would never do


End file.
